


Phase Me Out

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Gags, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones has something he wants, and Jim just can’t figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phase Me Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for km_anthology. My prompt was "spanking (McCoy receiving)". HUGE thanks to mackem for her epic beta duty in the midst of editing her own fic, and to affectingly and spikeface for listening to me bitch and whine, giving me ideas, and in one case, some lines of dialogue. Y’ALL ARE THE BEE’S KNEES.

When it comes to getting ready to go out, Jim has taken to telling McCoy to be ready to go exactly half an hour earlier than their intended departure time, because once McCoy enters the bathroom, some sort of unbreakable sequence gets keyed in and nothing—absolutely  _nothing_ —will extract him from the bathroom in anything less than one hour.   
  
(If McCoy believes they’re leaving earlier than they actually are, then Jim gets an extra thirty minutes of added buffer time between McCoy’s scheduled exit from the bathroom and the time they’re meant to arrive wherever they’re going, which allows Jim to compensate for days when McCoy slopes into the bathroom later than usual.)  
  
The exact events that occur during that mysterious hour can vary, and may include any of the following: using the head, showering, singing in the shower, shaving, brushing his teeth, washing his hands, and/or combing his hair.  
  
What Jim has figured out over the course of the past year is that it doesn’t matter how many or how few of these activities McCoy chooses to engage in once the bathroom door whooshes shut behind him, because McCoy is still going to take an hour to do them.  
  
Jim eventually adjusts the timing of his life to adopt McCoy’s meticulous hygiene habits, and he settles quite comfortably into the sheer joy that is getting routinely treated to a near-identical series of events prior to evenings out: McCoy enters the bathroom, sixty minutes elapse, and then McCoy exits the bathroom wearing  _nothing but a towel_.   
  
McCoy never brings clothes into the bathroom with him in which to change following a shower. Since Jim  _has_  seen him disappear into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes under his arm and then emerge from said bathroom in a significantly more clothed state than when he went  _in_ , he makes the mistake of asking, one day, and gets treated to a patented Leonard ‘Eyebrows’ McCoy rant about how attempting to dress oneself in the humid confines of a bathroom after a shower when skin is damp and clothing is dry is really just a recipe for total disaster.   
  
Actually, McCoy used a lot more words than that, but Jim can’t remember them all, beyond the relative merits of their complete and utter hyperbolic genius. Once McCoy gets going, Jim can’t help but give him fuel to continue.  
  
Still, it means Jim gets treated to the passing of an undeniably spectacular towel-clad derrière while he remains sprawled patiently on his bed, and one day, one completely unremarkable day, when McCoy passes him in a cloud of steam and water droplets and slick expanses of tempting ruddy-pink skin, Jim turns his PADD over in his hands, shuts it off, and, just as McCoy’s ass exits his field of vision, Jim grips the PADD tighter, says loudly, “C’mon Bones, get some pants on! We’re  _late_ ,” and swings it into an arc that ends with the hard plastic surface bouncing off the curve of McCoy’s backside with a sharp  _thwack_.  
  
McCoy squeaks—he fucking  _squeaks_ —his back arching and his hips bucking forward, and his hand loses its grip on the towel, the damp material sliding to the floor and pooling around his ankles.   
  
“That was an unexpected yet totally awesome result,” says Jim. On a whim, he repeats the action, this time slapping McCoy on the bare skin of his ass with the PADD. “C’mon, pick it up, beauty queen, the next shuttle leaves in twenty minutes and you’re not even clothed.”  
  
“Goddammit, Jim,” snaps McCoy, jerking out of Jim’s reach, his cheeks flushing red as he bends to scoop up the towel and fumble it around his waist again. “You’re not exactly expediting the process. Hands to yourself.”  
  
Jim just grins, watching as McCoy stomps to his wardrobe and digs out a clean pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. There’s a rectangular red mark on his left ass-cheek, from Jim’s PADD, and when he half-turns to pick up the cologne he keeps on the sideboard, Jim notices he’s still blushing, his gaze resolutely kept to the floor and his mouth turned down in a perfect inverted smile.  
  
By the time McCoy is finally dressed, Jim is on his feet, shrugging into his leather jacket, appealing red mark forgotten.   
  
“If we miss the shuttle, the first round is on you,” says Jim.  
  
“The first round is  _always_  on me,” mutters McCoy, pulling on his coat and rolling his eyes. “If that’s meant to be a punishment, I’m not sure I’ll learn my lesson.”  
  
Something about the choice of language tickles at Jim’s gut. McCoy’s face is still tinged pink, though that could be from the heat of the shower, but Jim watches him for a moment, testing the idea in his mind, pushing at the boundaries.   
  
Then it slips away as he claps McCoy on the shoulder, ignores McCoy’s answering grumble, threads their arms together, and leads the way out.  


 

oOo

  
  
McCoy does buy the first round, then the second when Jim loudly brings up McCoy’s comment from earlier, but Jim’s buys all the rest, and there are several of them.  
  
By the time they get their feet working, leave the bar, and make their way back to McCoy’s dorm, which is closer and serves as the de facto base of operations after a bar crawl, Jim has lost count of the drinks, has lost count of everything but each of McCoy’s breaths puffing out warm against his jaw as they stumble along together.   
  
When fed alcohol, McCoy rapidly loses control of his limbs in a carefully-calculated equation that is exponentially proportional to the number of bourbons on the rocks he’s had. As far as Jim’s managed to make out, every drink consumed obliterates his fine motor control by a factor of ten.   
  
If Jim himself wasn’t quite so hammered, he might be able to remember the number of associated units he’d decided upon.   
  
A factor of ten... stumbles over his own boots. Ten accidental elbowings of Jim’s ribs. Ten times their skulls knock together as they walk.   
  
Something like that, anyway.   
  
Booze also makes McCoy astonishingly clingy (though that’s probably because his body recognizes his complete inability to walk unaided and responds in kind, out of sheer and utter desperate self-preservation), and Jim is only too happy to return the favour; when Jim props McCoy up against the wall of the corridor and says, “Bones, door,” McCoy has got one arm slung sloppily over Jim’s shoulder, his face buried against Jim’s throat.   
  
Without extracting himself from the monkey-hold he’s got on Jim, McCoy lifts his right hand and waves it impatiently. Jim grabs him by the wrist and directs his fingers toward the biometric scanner, which pings in approval and slides the door open to admit them.   
  
Jim shoves McCoy toward the bed, watching as McCoy does a slow-motion header into the mattress, his feet hanging off the end of the bed and his face buried in a pillow.   
  
“Help,” he mumbles. He squirms a bit, then huffs, going still. “Jim,” he whines.   
  
Suppressing laughter, Jim weaves his way over to McCoy, carefully avoiding all the piles of nothing on the floor, eventually knocking his shins into the bed-frame and letting his body fold up and collapse onto the carpet, one elbow propping him up on the mattress. He grasps McCoy gently by the hair and turns his face out from the suffocating grasp of the pillow, revealing McCoy’s dark hazel eyes at half-mast, his plush pink lips, the curve of his pillow-creased cheek.   
  
Jim promptly blows a raspberry on his forehead.   
  
“Unngh!” protests McCoy, flailing helplessly at him. “Christ, you’re disgusting, Jim,  _stop it_.”  
  
“You’re pathetic,” laughs Jim, ruffling his hair ruthlessly. McCoy makes an annoyed sound, bringing up his arms to fold under his head. He glares at Jim over his forearms. “Look at that  _face_.”  
  
He makes a tactical error, assuming McCoy is sufficiently incapacitated to refrain from revenge, but, well, McCoy’s plan of attack is to lever himself over the edge of the mattress and slam their lips together, so it’s not exactly a  _tragic_  mistake.   
  
Jim  _mmphs_ , brings up both hands to steady McCoy’s face as he leans precariously over the edge of the bed, and ignores the throb of his lips, the ache of his teeth, in favour of pushing his tongue into McCoy’s slick, whiskey-warm mouth.   
  
“Good idea,” he mumbles, when McCoy drops his chin, pressing his cheek against Jim’s forehead.   
  
“Sometimes they crop up,” replies McCoy, curling his fingers into Jim’s hair. “Come up here, goddammit.”  
  
Jim hooks a knee up onto the mattress and climbs alongside McCoy, who seems intent to let Jim do all the work, staying practically motionless until Jim is finished tugging his pants down and wrapping one hand around his half-hard cock. He gets a handful of McCoy’s ass in the other hand for leverage, which urges a soft whimper from McCoy that he smothers against Jim’s shoulder, and then Jim starts jacking him off with single-minded determination while he grinds his own hips into the mattress, chasing the rough gratification of simple friction.   
  
McCoy goes quiet; his breaths are strained as he tips his head against Jim’s shoulder and clutches at the bedspread, squirming in Jim’s firm grasp.   
  
“Quit fidgeting,” chides Jim. “My grip keeps slipping.” He adjusts his fingers, squeezes McCoy’s ass in warning, and gets the unexpected response of McCoy letting out a strangled moan and shoving his backside into Jim’s hand.   
  
It’s an action which seems to imply that further southward action wouldn’t be entirely unwanted, but Jim hasn’t got the mentality or physical capacity to do anything requiring dexterity at the moment. “Bones, no, I am  _way_  too drunk to fuck you right now.”  
  
McCoy makes a muffled sound and rocks his ass back into Jim’s hand. “No, dammit, I just need—I need—”  
  
Jim doesn’t get to hear what McCoy needs, because his own orgasm tightens in his balls and then sweeps through him, hips ground into the mattress and his hands full of McCoy’s ass and cock. He squeezes the shaft and rubs the pad of his thumb into the head and McCoy comes a fraction of a second later, cock sliding along Jim’s palm.   
  
“Unngh,” says McCoy again.   
  
“I can’t tell if that’s a good noise or a bad noise,” mutters Jim, wiping his hand on the mattress. The wet spot in his jeans is rapidly spreading, and he desperately wants a shower.   
  
McCoy grunts and rolls over onto his stomach, his pants still pushed down under his ass. Jim considers the pale swell of firm flesh, thinks he’ll definitely want to fuck McCoy when he’s a lot less drunk, if that’s what McCoy wants as well. He reaches out and pats him solemnly on the rump. Once again, McCoy’s ass rises to meet his hand, and he makes a tiny frustrated noise.   
  
“Stop it,” he grumps after a minute, and Jim belatedly realises he’s been stroking McCoy’s ass with absent-minded fondness.   
  
“Sorry. Shower?”  
  
“Can’t you just hose me off down here?” asks McCoy.  
  
“I don’t think the shower head will reach out here, Bones.”  
  
McCoy heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Then just go ahead. Save yourself.”  
  
“I’ll always remember your sacrifice.”  


 

oOo

  
  
The hangover that follows is pretty epic, and Jim never thought he needed to know what a moldy sock might taste like, but he’s sure he does now and it’s like the inside of his mouth after a night of careless drinking and slovenly debauchery.   
  
It’s kind of awkward, waking up in the same bed as McCoy, because they’ve both curled into each other a little, and McCoy’s nose is pressed to Jim’s neck while Jim’s got one hand wrapped around McCoy’s wrist.   
  
McCoy gets up first, cursing heartily under his breath and tripping over Jim’s jeans, and Jim watches his bed-headed silhouette unsuccessfully navigate the pitfalls of the half-darkened room to stumble into the bathroom. The door slides shut behind him and then the shower hums on, and Jim burrows down into the blankets to replay last night’s events in his mind.   
  
He’s learned several things over the course of the previous evening, though the most obvious one is that he’s now certain he could pick McCoy’s cock out of a line-up, if he had to, having had it in his hand. He knows what McCoy sounds like when he comes, knows what he looks like sacked out and sated and half-naked.   
  
It is, to be completely honest, not an entirely terrifying thing.   
  
To Jim’s complete surprise, apparently the shower algorithm changes after sex, because McCoy emerges towel-clad and damp only ten minutes later, and his ass bounces obviously past Jim’s head as he heads for his wardrobe.   
  
Jim could almost swear he pauses for a second when he’s in Jim’s reach, but Jim is also still kind of drunk, so he’s not entirely sure whether he’s just fantasizing or not.   
  
Either way, McCoy soon ends up dressed, and Jim sits up in bed and cracks a watery-eyed yawn.   
  
They regard each other silently for a moment, and McCoy grunts. “Breakfast?”  
  
Jim wrinkles his nose. “In the cafeteria?”  
  
“No,” says McCoy, shaking his head. “That diner, across from the park. All you can eat.”  
  
Jim stomach growls on cue. “You’re buying.”  
  
McCoy rolls his eyes. “I don’t usually put out on a first date, Kirk. I think  _you_  should buy.”  
  
Jim shakes his head. “I jerked you off and came in my pants. You at  _least_  owe me breakfast. Wait, first date? Bones, this cannot be our first date. I demand a do-over.”  
  
“Fine,” says McCoy, picking up Jim’s jacket and throwing it in his face. “But we’re still getting breakfast.  _That_  can be our first date.”  
  
Jim pulls the jacket off his face and shrugs into it, swinging his legs off the mattress and looking around for his pants. “Morning after breakfast is going to be our first date? We can’t tell that story to our grandchildren, Bones.”  
  
McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose and walks over to his desk, where he extracts his medkit and digs around for something. “Getting a little ahead of yourself there, aren’t you, Jim?” He comes up with a hypospray and doses himself in the neck, sighing with relief.  
  
“Want to go to the museum this afternoon?”  
  
Very slowly, McCoy turns toward him. Jim is expecting annoyance or outright dismissal, but McCoy’s furrowed brows smooth out after a moment spent examining Jim’s expression. “Aerospace or Natural History?” he asks suspiciously.  
  
Jim hesitates. Aerospace would be  _his_  first choice, but he knows McCoy does not exhibit the same child-like glee as Jim in the face of space capsules and rocket boosters. “Natural History.”   
  
The corner of McCoy’s mouth twitches up. “You’re on, Jim.”  


 

oOo

  
  
So they go on a date to the Natural History museum.   
  
Jim contemplates dinosaurs while McCoy wanders off and returns with two cups of hot, creamy coffee, and then Jim crowds him into the bathroom and McCoy ends up blowing Jim in one of the stalls.   
  
It’s a good afternoon.  


 

oOo

  
  
Three days later, McCoy stomps into Jim’s dorm room, barks out, “Is your roommate here?” and when Jim shakes his head in the negative, promptly strips naked.   
  
“What could I have possibly done to earn such earthly delights?” says Jim, wide-eyed.   
  
His brain has already jumped ahead to the part where McCoy crawls into Jim’s lap and fucks himself on his cock, so it’s suitably disappointing when McCoy gripes, “Nothing,” pushes his armful of clothes onto the floor, and the turns his back on Jim as he heads into the bathroom. “There’s a problem with my room. No hot water. Maintenance told me to suck it up until Tuesday. If they think I’m taking a cold water shower and then risking pneumonia, then they’ve got another thing coming.”  
  
Jim watches his ass—round, firm, dimpled—disappear into the bathroom.  
  
“Okay,” he says, two minutes after the water has already turned on.  
  
Jim is waiting for him when he comes out, pouncing on him the second the door slides open and mashing their lips together.   
  
“Jim,” gasps McCoy, fumbling for a slippery grip on Jim. He’s gorgeous like this, flushed pink skin and damp brown hair curling around his ears and plastered down to his forehead, and Jim takes advantage of the fact that neither of them are drunk or hungover, and that instead of stale booze, McCoy mouth tastes peppermint-y and clean.   
  
McCoy’s hands close around Jim’s upper arms and he goes a big rubbery one, melting into the kiss, eyelids fluttering shut. Then he shoves Jim up against the wall, and jams a knee between his thighs.   
  
“Uh,” grunts Jim, arousal surging and sparking in his abdomen. His cock stiffens in his pants, reacts beautifully to the pressure of McCoy’s body pressing up against his hips. His hand falls to McCoy’s lower back, and McCoy bucks against it, back bowing until he knocks it down to the curve of his ass. Jim squeezes, the gesture familiar and unconscious, and McCoy pants eagerly into his mouth, rutting into Jim with base abandon, dark eyes glazed with heady pleasure.   
  
“Let me,” gasps McCoy, and Jim doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he’s sinking to his knees and fumbling at Jim’s waistband.   
  
“Bones,” protests Jim, batting at McCoy’s shoulders with a spectacular lack of coordination. “Wait, no, you—”  
  
He’s about to say something about how it’s his turn to reciprocate, he got that filthy as fuck blowjob in the museum, but he slits his eyes and looks down at McCoy crouched with his deft fingers poised over Jim’s lap, hair mussed and lips spit-slick. “What?” says Bones, eyebrows knitting in concern. “What is it, Jim?”  
  
The words go fuzzy in his mouth. Why the hell is he  _stopping_  this?   
  
“Bones,” breathes Jim, and is heart flutters soft in his chest. “Are we boyfriends?”  
  
McCoy blinks at him, face shocked and open, then his face goes crumpled like it always does when he’s trying not to laugh, and he slaps Jim in the thigh. His mouth slides over Jim’s cock, achingly hot and snug, and Jim’s thoughts fizzle into little puffs of air when two accompanying fingers push into his ass, making him jerk and groan.   
  
But McCoy is still tonguing lazily at the head of his cock, eyes wide and expression open, watching Jim, waiting for—what? His permission?   
  
Jim tightens his grip on McCoy’s ass and shoulder, which are the parts of him that happen to be in his immediate reach. McCoy’s response is muffled by Jim’s dick, but his eyes spark and go hazy and he rolls his hips into nothing.   
  
“Bones, c’mon, go ahead, fuck me.”  
  
It’s not precisely that simple, but Jim skims over the part where McCoy has to pull off his cock to get lube and then prep him properly with his fingers and instead settles on the deep, throbbing stretch of McCoy’s cock sliding into his ass and his body plastered to Jim’s, propping him up against the wall with one leg hooked over McCoy’s slim hip. McCoy has dropped his face against Jim’s shoulder, his hands digging into Jim’s waist as he clutches him close, and every tentative rock of his hips is a sweet burst of warmth blooming across Jim’s prostate.   
  
“Bones,” rasps Jim, squirming in place, sweat pooling at the small of his back. He pinches McCoy’s ass, absently notes the flinch and the tiny, surprised mewl McCoy makes in response. “Harder.  _Please_.”  
  
McCoy abandons his leisurely pace, thrusting in hard and fast, and he makes that same delicious noise when Jim tightens his grip on his right ass-cheek. Jim can feel McCoy’s orgasm building along with his own, parses it out from his quickening breaths and the stutter in his hips, and when it’s about to drive him crazy, when he doesn’t think he can come unless McCoy does, he clenches around McCoy’s cock and bounces his palm off his ass with a sharp smack, grunting out, “Bones, come  _on_.”   
  
The response is immediate.   
  
McCoy chokes, eyes widening, and his hips buck hard into Jim as he comes, shoulders tensing as he shudders to completion. Jim comes between them from just the sight of McCoy, mouth open and panting raggedly, his face red and dazed, eyes glassy-wide.   
  
“Well,” says Jim breathlessly. He pats McCoy on the ass and McCoy grunts softly. “That was fun.”  
  
“And completely unplanned,” grumbles McCoy, apparently coming back to himself. He pulls out gently, and uses his long-abandoned towel to clean them up. “I have  _class_.”  
  
There’s something off about his expression, like maybe he was expecting—something else. Or something  _more_.   
  
But he’s already cleaning himself up and getting back into his clothes, so Jim just sends him on his way with another smack on the backside and tries not to dwell on the fact that he’s pretty sure that was disappointment simmering on McCoy’s face.  


 

oOo

  
  
“I think Bones is my boyfriend,” says Jim. He says it with suitable gravitas and then holds out his hand expectantly. “Clear polish.”  
  
Gaila tosses him the bottle without looking at him, the tip of her tongue poking out from between her rosy lips as she concentrates of spreading a thin layer of electric blue varnish over the nail of Jim’s big toe. She’s a ninja-master with a brush, whereas Jim is hopelessly incompetent with colours and is only allowed to add gloss to Gaila’s nails.  
  
“Stop moving,” she chides. “What does Leonard say about this?”  
  
Jim pauses in his careful application of clear polish to the toenails on Gaila’s right foot, and directs his gaze upward. There are glow-in-the-dark stars plastered all over the ceiling and Jim has no idea whether they were Gaila or Uhura’s idea. “He hit me. And then he sucked my cock and fucked me against the wall.”  
  
“Not an  _awful_  outcome,” murmurs Gaila. Her nose scrunches and she finishes Jim’s final toenail with a flourish.   
  
“No,” agrees Jim. “But he was...” He tries to put words to the strange, slightly unsatisfied expression he’d last seen on McCoy’s face before he’d left, the one that had taken over Jim’s brain and mutated until he had to admit that this flip-floppy, slightly nauseous feeling in his stomach was probably insecurity. Or maybe indigestion. It was so hard to tell. “Something wasn’t right. I think maybe he was.... underwhelmed.”  
  
Gaila makes a noncommittal noise. “Was the sex good?”  
  
“Uh.  _Yeah_.”  
  
“Then I doubt it was about the nature of your coitus.”  
  
“What else  _could_  it be? All we’ve been doing differently than normal is fucking each other. We’ve added sex into the equation, ergo, sex must be the problem.”  
  
Gaila ignores him and tilts her head, squinting down at Jim’s toes. “I’m finished.”  
  
Jim pulls his foot out of her lap and pushes her feet away so that he can stretch out his legs and spread out his toes. Glittery blue winks back at him and he grins. At least now he can face his day with the bolster of an incredibly awesome pedicure. “You’re the best, G.”  
  
“You know, you could try  _talking_  to him,” suggests Gaila. She curls up with her long legs tucked beneath her and reaches for the bowl of pretzels Jim had brought over. The way into Gaila’s heart often began with salty baked treats. “Ask him the boyfriends question again, but stay out of range in case he chooses to smack you. Or bring him something nice before you ask, like a cupcake, to lessen the potential annoyance.”  
  
“A cupcake,” echoes Jim. He flops backward onto Gaila’s bedspread, and she joins him, her hair fanning out in a lush sprawl of curls.   
  
“With frosting. Leonard has a sweet tooth.”  
  
“Right.”  


 

oOo

  
  
“Here,” says Jim. He drops the pastry box into McCoy’s lap and flumps into the chair opposite him.  
  
“A box. Thank you,” says McCoy, just to be a dick. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”  
  
“Do you actually make a conscious effort to be a sarcastic bastard, or is it just a natural talent?”  
  
McCoy frowns as he lifts the lid on the box. “I don’t actually know anymore.” His eyebrows knit sharply together in that scowly adorable vee, like a perfect squadron of migrating geese. “Jim, did you  _eat_  the other three cupcakes that were so clearly in this box when you purchased it?”  
  
Jim schools his expression into a mask of neutrality. “Yes.”  
  
Apparently this doesn’t stop McCoy from reaching in and extracting the red velvet cupcake generously frosted with thick waves of chocolate sprinkle-dusted cream cheese icing. He carefully peels back the cupcake liner, licking frosting from his fingers as he goes, and then mashes half the cake into his mouth.  
  
“Are we boyfriends?” asks Jim, when McCoy has chewed and swallowed and rolled his eyes back in evident bliss.   
  
McCoy snorts and kicks him in the ankle.  


 

oOo

  
  
“Is that chair in your way?” asks Jim.  
  
McCoy is bent over his desk, scowling down at his PADD, apparently checking his messages. He’s folded himself over his tucked-in chair, body propped up on his elbows, ass cocked in the air.   
  
He’s been that way for about fifteen minutes. It can’t be comfortable.  
  
It’s also  _incredibly distracting_  and Jim is trying to be  _good_.   
  
McCoy doesn’t even turn his head, just grunts a vague reply and continues scrolling through his massive list of project proposals and medical research journals, and then shifts his weight in such a way that the luscious swell of his ass is brought into even sharper relief.   
  
“Hrnhhgh,” says Jim.  
  
He’s pretty sure the gravitational pull in the room has just shifted to accommodate the tremendous force of McCoy’s ass, and Jim’s cock feels an answering twitch. He squirms. “Hey, Bones—”  
  
“What?” McCoy finally straightens up.  
  
Jim hastily repositions his eye-line to pretend he didn’t just spend the last quarter of an hour ogling his best friend and maybe-boyfriend’s (immensely fuckable) rear end.   
  
“Nothing,” says Jim. He can’t actually remember what he was going to say.  
  
Jim can feel McCoy’s eyes on him, searching for something that he apparently doesn’t find, judging by his sigh.  
  
Jim no longer understands  _anything at all_.  


 

oOo

  
  
Which is okay, because the next day, Jim catches McCoy jerking off to porn, and Jim’s life goes back to being simultaneously ridiculous and  _awesome_  and not just ridiculous and  _confusing_.   
  
“Don’t you  _knock_?” demands McCoy. His cheeks are flushed red, and he’s got one long-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, his pants shoved down to his thighs.   
  
He fumbles for the PADD that’s propped on his knees, and knocks it to the mattress first, which gives Jim enough time to filter out male-sounding grunts and the repeated slap of flesh meeting flesh. Then McCoy taps the screen, stopping the action mid-groan, stuffs his erection back into his pants, and stalks into the bathroom, the door whooshing pointedly shut behind him.   
  
Jim blinks, then directs his gaze toward the PADD, which is lying on the rumpled blankets, the video of whatever porn McCoy was enjoying still open on the screen, just paused.   
  
It’s almost like an  _invitation_.  
  
But McCoy has issues with invasion of privacy.   
  
So Jim doesn’t touch the PADD. He doesn’t even lean over the bed to see the still-frame it’s paused on.  
  
He’s substantially more proud of himself than the situation really calls for, until McCoy emerges twenty minutes later, still flushed in the face but considerably more relaxed around the shoulders, takes one look at Jim, and—slumps?   
  
He snatches up the PADD and shoves it into his desk drawer, and then turns around, pegging Jim with a glare.   
  
Jim relaxes a little. This is more familiar territory.  
  
“I could’ve taken care of that for you,” points out Jim. “Since we’re—”  
  
“Fucking?” interrupts McCoy.   
  
“Yeah,” says Jim uncertainly.   
  
McCoy grunts, unimpressed. “Yeah.”  


 

oOo

  
  
“BONES,” says Jim. “ _BONES_.”  
  
“WHAT,” mocks McCoy, arms crossed over his chest. “I  _am_  standing three feet away from you, Jim, lower the damn noise.”  
  
“I CAN’T. YOU’RE. I’M.  _WHAT_.”  
  
McCoy redistributes his weight from one hip to the other and his pants squeak a little. There’s a slow blush dawning across his face like a sunrise, and his back is ramrod straight. That might be because he’s crammed his junk into a pair of slick leather pants that would probably be a size too small for  _Jim_  and he can’t slouch without crushing his own balls, but Jim’s gotten pretty good at reading McCoy’s body, and he is so far from comfortable he’s practically on the other side of the galaxy.   
  
“NOT THAT I DON’T APPRECIATE—”  
  
“Jim!” barks McCoy.  
  
“Sorry. Not that I don’t appreciate how—” He gestures in an all-encompassing sort of way at McCoy’s hips, “well-packaged you are, but do you actually want to go out in those?”  
  
“No,” snaps McCoy. “I’m just fucking with you because it’s good for my health. Are we going out or not?”  
  
The answer is  _yes_ , of course ( _hell_  to the  _yes_ , Bones!), and half an hour later, as Jim watches McCoy and Gaila grind together cheerfully on the dance-floor, hips to ass, breasts to back, he’s almost positive something has torn in the fabric of the space-time continuum.   
  
There is no other way that this is  _actually happening_.  
  
Jim weaves his way through the crowd until he reaches his destination, handing McCoy’s bourbon to Gaila and Gaila’s Cardassian Sunrise to McCoy. Neither of them complains, and both of them part for Jim, McCoy with a lazy, indulgent smile, and Gaila with a dimpled grin. Hands free, Jim pulls McCoy’s body against his own, grinding his half-mast erection against the tight curve of McCoy’s ass.   
  
He gets exactly the response he was hoping for, McCoy grinding right back against his cock, his mouth parting and his eyes closing, hair stuck damp to his forehead.   
  
Jim lays a possessive hand directly over the crotch of McCoy’s stupid pants, aligns his chest with McCoy’s back, catches his earlobe with his teeth, and hisses, “I want to bury my cock inside that sweet little ass of yours.”  
  
His reward is a full-body shudder and a buck of McCoy’s hips, an involuntary action Jim stops with an arm tight around his waist.   
  
By the time Jim grabs McCoy’s hand and tugs him off the floor, Gaila is dancing with Uhura, and she winks obviously at them both as they pass.  


 

oOo

  
  
Sometimes, Jim has trouble untangling the assorted chains of events that lead to certain moments in his life.   
  
Like right now, for instance.  
  
If he breaks his morning, afternoon, and evening down into step by step instalments, he gets a series of actions that don’t quite fit together, yet have somehow culminated in Jim folding McCoy over the big sturdy conference table in room 345 of Cochrane Hall at three in the morning and fucking him stupid.  
  
It all has something to do with the pants Jim had to peel— _peel_ —off McCoy’s hips, wrapping him up like a candy bar yielding untold delights, but Jim isn’t really about to concentrate too strenuously on the circumstances that unfolded prior to the glory that is stretching McCoy open on lube-slick fingers and hearing him suck in trembling breaths before sinking into the glorious heat of his body.  
  
Jim didn’t anticipate just how much this would light McCoy up, get under his skin and set him squirming, body restless and responsive. A sharp jab of his hips has McCoy yowling like a cat, hips arching and back bowing, and he’s too  _loud_ , fuck, they’re going to get  _caught_.  
  
“Bones,” groans Jim, parting McCoy’s legs wider, just that little bit of extra room that lets him press in with his balls flush against McCoy’s backside. “Bones, keep it down. God, you are desperate for it, aren’t you?”  
  
McCoy whines in the back of his throat and rolls his hips back as if their bodies can get any closer without becoming one. “Jim, you asshole, you are  _so blind_.”  
  
Jim has bent over McCoy’s back, mouthing at the shape of his shoulder blades tense beneath the gleam of his skin, so it takes a moment for that to register. “What?”  
  
“You—”   
  
Jim nudges his hips in at more shallow angle and revels in the twitch and strangled moan that he coaxes out of McCoy with that delicate press against his prostate.   
  
“I?” teases Jim, digging his fingertips into McCoy’s iliac crest. “Am the goddamn boss?”  
  
“Ungh,” grunts McCoy, dropping his head forward onto the table with a sharp  _thunk_. “You  _dick_. You think I’m wearing these pants for  _fun_?”   
  
“I knew it,” laughs Jim in delight. “I  _knew_  it.” He braces his feet and sets his shoulders and starts fucking into McCoy with long, gliding thrusts, pulling out and pushing in a rhythm that shoves McCoy into the edge of the table again and again. Not that he seems to mind, considering the ever-increasing volume of his moans and the complete involuntary babbling.   
  
Jim is on fire, toes curling, muscles tightening, and McCoy is reacting  _so well_. He winds out a hand and tangles his fingers in McCoy’s hair, tugging gently. “Got something to say about everything, even when it’s not making a lick of fucking sense, huh, Bones,” he growls. McCoy bucks and shudders, his hands splayed flat on the surface of the table. “Bet I’d need to gag you to get you to stop.”  
  
The idea goes straight to his cock, and apparently has a similar effect on McCoy, who mewls, squirming helplessly.   
  
“Right? I’d need to stuff that big mouth of yours full of something,  _keep_  you from making so much noise.”  
  
He waits for a refusal, for McCoy to protest that he can keep himself quiet, but all he gets is a too-loud moan. Jim picks up McCoy’s discarded t-shirt, balls it up, and stuffs it into his mouth.   
  
McCoy immediately clenches around Jim’s cock, groaning openly into the material he’s bitten down on, and thrusts back so hard into Jim that Jim nearly bites through his own fucking tongue at the increase in blessedly tight heat and aching pressure.   
  
“ _Fuck_ , Bones,” he hisses, his head swimming. He’s dancing around his own orgasm, and by the way McCoy is slowly coming to pieces around him, McCoy is, too. Jim wraps a rough fist around McCoy’s stiff cock and bites down on his bare shoulder, licks and sucks at the red mark. “Don’t you  _dare_  come yet. Don’t you  _fucking dare_ , or, I swear I’ll—”  
  
It’s dawning on him slowly, way too slowly, what must be doing it for McCoy, what’s making him writhe and moan and fall to pieces like this, what he’s been trying to get from Jim. It’s not just the rough sex, bending him over and fucking him quiet, it’s—the pants, and the casual nudity, getting caught watching kinky porn, trying to draw Jim’s attention to his—  
  
“Or I swear to god, Bones, I’m going to spank your sweet little ass  _so damn hard_  you won’t even know your own name and coming again will be the last thing on your mind. So if you know what’s fucking  _good_ for you, you’ll  _control_  yourself.”  
  
Jim is not at all expecting McCoy will know what’s good for him.  
  
It’s a test, of sorts, and judging by the way McCoy convulses and comes all over himself with a muffled cry, Jim finally figured out how to pass the fucking thing.  
  
With flying goddamn colours.  


 

oOo

  
  
McCoy has class and a clinic shift the next day, but Jim is waiting for him when he stumbles in through the door at 2100 hours, rumpled and scowling and leaking exhaustion like a punctured balloon.   
  
He stops short when he realises Jim is in the room, shoulders tensing and a flash of uncertainty clouding his pinched expression as his cheeks flush a deep red. “Jim,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today. I’m tired, kid, maybe—”  
  
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Bones,” says Jim. McCoy falls silent. Jim gets up from where he’s been sitting on McCoy’s bed, watching the porn that Jim now realises McCoy had left out in the hopes that Jim  _would_  peek. “Are we boyfriends?”  
  
And this time, underneath the conditioned response of outrage and annoyance, Jim can see the flash of vulnerability. “Because,” Jim continues cheerfully, bending to straighten the sheets he’d mussed up and sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread. “I’ve been having a hard time figuring out if you’re scornful of the terminology, or the idea in general.”  
  
McCoy’s face flickers, goes apologetic. He hesitates. “We’re whatever you want us to be, Jim,” he finally says.   
  
“Thought you might say something like that,” says Jim. His heart is pounding and he’s not entirely sure if this is the right approach, but it’s all he’s got, right now, and he’s clinging to it. “What do  _you_  want?”  
  
“Anything you choose to give me.”   
  
Jim is surprised by the frisson of pleasure that electrifies his spine at those words, the way his cock thickens. McCoy’s gaze shifts to Jim’s lap, and he raises his eyes back to Jim’s, shifting restlessly on the spot.   
  
“I could suck your cock,” says McCoy, voice rough and low.  
  
“No,” says Jim casually. “I believe I made a promise last night, and I am a man of my word, Bones.”  
  
McCoy’s expression turns confused, and then the blush pools in his cheeks, and Jim can see his cock beginning to tent his uniform pants. “Jim,” he rasps.   
  
“Come here,” says Jim, gesturing toward his own lap. McCoy comes to him in a daze, and Jim grabs him by the back of the neck, wraps his fingers around his nape and shoves him down as McCoy crawls over his lap, arranges himself awkwardly, elbows propping him up as he settles with his ass in the air and his hips pressed to Jim’s spread thighs.   
  
“I believe I said I would spank you raw,” murmurs Jim, one hand still on the back of McCoy’s neck and the other laying heavily on the dip in his spine. McCoy’s answering shudder telegraphs all the way to Jim’s heart, transmits a renewed burst of arousal in his abdomen. “If you came before I did. What did you do?”  
  
“I came before you did,” whispers McCoy. Then, in a stronger voice, “You domineering little shit, I’ve been doing everything I could to get you to—”  
  
Jim shoves his head down, cutting him off as he slides his hand over to McCoy’s ass. “I could always gag you again.”  
  
McCoy’s sharp intake of breath tells Jim he wouldn’t mind that, but he wants to hear McCoy this time, wants to see exactly what this will do to him. Wants to see exactly how much he needs this.   
  
McCoy is quiet as Jim tugs his pants down, just far enough to expose his ass but not enough to free his hardening cock. Jim spends a moment just stroking the smooth, pale flesh, enjoying the resilient push and pull of muscle as McCoy fidgets, rolls his hips a little, and Jim does it long enough for McCoy to get impatient and thrust into the space between his thighs. Then he closes his legs and traps the clothed bulge of McCoy’s erection and brings his hand down, palm open and fingers spread, onto his backside.   
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” hisses McCoy, his voice choked, and he drops his head into his hands, body trembling from head to toe.   
  
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Bones,” murmurs Jim, tone conversational. He brushes his fingertips lightly over the rush of colour flooding to McCoy’s ass, the splotches of red and white, then rakes his nails over the angry marks. McCoy bucks and stifles a moan, rubbing his cock into Jim’s legs. “You wanted me to put you over my knee and spank your greedy ass until you couldn’t even think about sitting down without sobbing. You wanted  _this_.”  
  
He strikes him again, enjoying the tingle in his own hand, as McCoy jerks and whines, his back arching and his legs spreading as much as the tangle of his own clothes will allow. This time, Jim doesn’t let him recover, just smacks him again, McCoy bucking into his touch with a surprised, “uh!” and rolling his hips in time with the motion.   
  
When it looks likes McCoy is getting restless, he gives him ten in a row, every sharp smack reverberating in the quiet stillness of the room. Jim pins his body with an arm over his back, so that by the end of it, his hand is throbbing and McCoy has been reduced to desperate hitching sobs, his arms crossed on the bed to pillow his head as he thrashes into and away from Jim’s hand.   
  
“Easy,” soothes Jim, stroking the hot, tight skin of his ass. McCoy snuffles into his arms, and Jim goes still, stomach flipping in ice-cold worry. “Are you okay? Bones, answer me.”  
  
“Fine,” says McCoy, voice thick and tinged with irritation that Jim has dared stop. “I’m  _fine_ , please, Jim, I need—more, keep going, dammit, don’t  _stop_.”  
  
Jim slides his hand down instead, pats McCoy’s backside fondly, and spreads his cheeks open wide, thumbing at the pucker of his reddened, puffy hole, which clenches and contracts, McCoy grunting in surprise at the teasing touch. Gripped by a sudden curiosity, Jim lands a smack right on McCoy’s exposed asshole, and McCoy practically jackknifes off his lap, moaning, “Oh  _god_ , yes.”  
  
“Count,” says Jim, and the rhythm he sets into, the slap of flesh, McCoy’s answering groans and the way his voice gets rougher and rougher with every strike, has Jim rock-hard in his pants, drinking in the weight of McCoy’s body, the way he can’t keep still, white-knuckled hands clutching at the sheets, bracing himself against every open-handed slap. His shoulders tense in anticipation before each spank, so once McCoy has choked out, “twenty, god,  _fuck_ , please, Jim,” in a hoarse voice, lying wrecked and shaking, Jim pauses, watches McCoy tense, and then, when nothing more comes, sag panting into Jim’s lap.   
  
For a moment, all Jim can hear is their mingled breaths, ragged and breathless.   
  
“Gonna fuck you now,” growls Jim, decides it and starts moving for the lube before McCoy can do anything more than whimper, then gives him only the time Jim needs to finish undressing them both to recover before he’s spreading him out on his back over the bed, hooking his legs around Jim’s waist and sinking two slick fingers into his raw and tender ass.   
  
“You never go half-way, do you,” groans McCoy, rocking into the stretch of Jim’s fingers, nudging them deeper, angling for his prostate. “ _Fuck_.”  
  
Jim grins and nips at his throat, fisting his own cock with a slippery hand before pushing into McCoy, hissing at the warm slick heat of him, the grasping clutch of his body. They both groan in relief.   
  
“If you don’t let me come in the next thirty seconds, Jim, I will shave you bald,” gasps McCoy, voice thin and shaky. “Please, I need, I  _need_ —”  
  
Jim wraps his hand around McCoy’s cock, gripping the shaft firmly, and then uses his other hand to smack him hard on the ass.   
  
McCoy bucks sharply into the slap and makes a noise a bit like, “hhnghfh,” coming in a thick stripe as he arches back onto Jim’s cock and clenches around him reflexively.   
  
Then McCoy goes utterly fucking limp, breathing shallowly as Jim shoves his legs up against his chest, folding him against the bed and fucking into him with short, hard thrusts until the ache in his balls builds too tight, and he’s shuddering into his own climax, a fluttery, fizzy slide of sensation that starts in his toes and steadily consumes him until he’s left panting into McCoy’s throat.   
  
“How was that?” mutters Jim, when he’s cogent enough to form words.  
  
McCoy’s leg slips free and he accidentally knocks Jim in the hip with his knee. “Fuck, Jim,” he says weakly. “What you lack in perception, you make up for in sheer, bull-headed determination. Gotta hand you that.”  
  
“Hey,” protests Jim, pinching a nearby nipple. “You could’ve fucking  _said_.”  
  
“Right. ‘Hey, Jim, it gets me spectacularly hard when you smack my ass. Do that a little more,’” slurs McCoy. His multi-syllabic sentence skills apparently drained, he erupts into a massive yawn, turning his face into Jim’s cheek.   
  
Jim buries his fingers in his hair and tilts his hips so that his cock slides out of McCoy’s raw hole, McCoy making a tiny noise of discomfort and then settling, his legs slipping down to entwine with Jim’s.   
  
“Exactly,” mumbles Jim. “So. Still haven’t answered me. Are we—”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” snaps McCoy. “Jesus Christ on a goddamn cracker, if you’re serious, yes.  _Yes_ , we are fucking boyfriends. I hate you for making me  _say_  that. As if I’m scornful of the general idea and  _not_  the terminology.”   
  
Jim pats McCoy on the ass, enjoying the soft moan he gets in response, and smiles.   
  
They lie in silence for a few lazy, self-satisfied moments. Then:  
  
“Jim?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Are your toenails blue?”  
  
“No. My toenails are not just ‘blue’. They’re ‘ _blue my mind’_.”  
  
“I was wrong,” mutters McCoy. “It’s definitely the general idea of being boyfriends that bothers me.”  
  
But then he closes his eyes and burrows even closer to Jim, like he wants nothing more than to get inside his skin, so Jim doesn’t exactly take it personally.


End file.
